Dear Mana, This is Allen
by An Odd MrRee
Summary: In the late 19th century, Allen Walker leaves the safety of his house and enters the destroyed England in order to find out the truth behind the imminent destruction of the country, and possibly, the world... while writing letters to his foster-father, Mana, about all of his discoveries.
1. March the Twelfth

_March the Twelfth, 18XX_

Dear Mana,

This is Allen. It has been a week now since I have left you, and I deeply apologize for causing any agony as a result of my inattention. I am all right. At the present, I am more worried about your condition—are the first-floor windows sealed well-enough? Are all doors, except the one leading to the secret passageway in the basement, locked fast? Perhaps we should have found more food for you, but you told me to leave anyhow. So, leave I did, and now I am plagued by the idea that maybe leaving was _not_ a good idea. Are you sleeping well? Do you have enough water? Are you safe? I guess I will not know until I return home, whenever that may be. I did take all the paper in the study, after all. I pray to God you receive these in good health. And I hope that these letters are legible in some way, because I know my written-English is not good.

Right now, I am waiting out this persistent storm that has gone on for what seems like hours in a stall where horses _ought_ to be. There's hay in the bins, and water pales, but no horses themselves. All the gates are open—people must have stolen them in the chaos of what occurred a month ago. Laws no longer apply in what seems to be the extinction of humankind, I guess. At least the horses got away. The owners—or what is left of them—are still roaming in the farmhouse nearby. I caught a glimpse of them as I raided their attic for stored foods earlier. They were both in terrible shape, but not as bad as what appeared to be their son. If I be fifteen, then he looked no younger than ten. But then again, I could not make out any special features because of the rot.

It worries me that I am so used to seeing this now: the darkened discoloration of blueish-purple skin, the bile-filled, sagging eyes, and the jerking of their slow footsteps as they look for more prey. It is much worse out here than we thought, Mana. In my week of travel, of trying to find _anyone_ _else_ with sanity left in them, I have been unsuccessful. The more I walk, the more hellish scenery I encounter. Men, women, and children—no exceptions anywhere, all with bloodied clothes and the same aghast looks on their faces, foaming at the mouth.

It is frightening. I had numerous close encounters with these sick people. While they are slow, whenever they smell fresh flesh, it seems to me their agility increases almost tenfold. However, they cannot seem to climb, and they appear to have less energy when the sun is out. Whenever the sun sets, I try to find someplace to stay, or else I must keep vigilance throughout the entire night.

I do not really know where I am, to be honest. In my search for other survivors, I have lost my way numerous times, and find myself on long stretches of dirt roads leading to nowhere. I happened upon this farm by chance, and, even then, the owners are still...

I am starting to think we are the only ones left. Is it really the end of the world? Even if it is, I intend to keep walking forward, one step at a time, to figure out the truth about what happened. It is not easy, though—the few small towns I wandered through, chock-full of diseased people, have no news of anything. Papers stopped being delivered, and, even on the ones that are dated a month back, no one seems to have seen this coming. No one was prepared. I have seen completely empty houses, overturned carriages, and discarded belongings exposed to the elements. No one was prepared at all.

But every time I see one, even though they try to kill me, I cannot help but feel a need to _help_ them somehow. Maybe there is a cure, somewhere, and maybe someone knows the answers to all these questions. Is it possible that somewhere far away, there is a human-resistance fighting, even now? If God truly does love humans, I can't see how He would just abandon us like this. There _has_ to be a solution, and a reason.

My hands are cold, and my nose is running. I wish I could go inside, where those owners are, and sleep in their bed (even if it _does_ seem a little dusty). But I do not want to confront them again; I barely slipped out the door last time. And I definitely do not want to bring them any harm. What if they are stuck in their own mind, begging for help? I cannot imagine what that is like. I do not want to become like that, Mana.

Sorry if my handwriting is getting worse. It is very cold outside—I can see my breath. At the very least, it has stopped snowing, meaning spring is around the corner. Do you remember last year, how it snowed in the middle of summer during your circus act? Everyone was shocked, and you juggled snowballs at the request of small children, without gloves. How did you do that? My hands feel so numb I can barely bend them anymore. It is a miracle this pen is staying in my hand.

Nothing but pickled food for days. I am tired of eating pickled food. I wish I could have some sort of meat. Not human meat, of course! Perhaps bringing that up is a bad idea. Perhaps I should go make a bed out of the hay and sleep before continuing. With any luck, the rain will let up.

Timcanpy, your carrier pigeon, has been eating very well, though. He is such a good bird—how does he know where I am all the time? No matter where I tell him to fly, he always comes back to me. You trained him really well. Where did you get him? He is my only companion right now. Maybe that is why I haven't gone insane yet.

I can barely see the paper anymore. I am going to stop now and sleep. The owners and their son are locked in the old farmhouse, and there are no other houses for many kilometers, so I think I can sleep well tonight. If it is sunny tomorrow, I will send this letter, and hope it gets to you. I will try to send you as many letters as I can to ensure you that I am okay, but I do not know how often than will be. Please forgive me.

I pray to God for your safety, and mine.

With much love,

_ Allen W._


	2. March the Twenty-Fourth

_March the Twenty-Fourth, 18XX_

Dear Mana,

This is Allen. Timcanpy came back to me with no letter attached to his foot, so I can only hope that means you are, in fact, all right. I also hope this one will reach you as well without much difficulty and in good health.

Because of the late rainy season, I have not been able to move as far as I would have liked, though the daylight has been getting slightly longer with the arrival of spring. However, it feels as if I have not seen the actual sun in weeks. I do not think foreigners could possibly understand how difficult it is to live in a country where it can rain for forty days and nights without an end in sight. It is funny how it seems like complaining about the lack of sun seems much more pleasant than my current situation. I doubt I would have ever said that before.

Food is getting rather hard to find, especially walking the long stretches of dirt roads overlooking many kilometers of farmland—empty farmland, no less. Because of the rain, many puddles have accumulated in the already-dismal corn and barley fields. There are still some cows here and there, lazily chewing on the fresh-spring grass, and part of me wants to go out and kill one. But I do not know the first thing on how to properly kill a cow, and the poor thing would die in so much pain. I do not even want to think about it.

I ought get to a city. There might be more mills that produce food and the like, and, perhaps, people. I am tired of feeling starved, wet, and cold. Though there is a stream nearby that I could possibly wash my filthy clothes in, it is swollen from the rain, and I could risk getting swept away. Would that not be ironic? To drown in a river instead of dying by cannibalistic predators that foam at the mouth?

My apologies. Given the current predicament, it is hard to write about anything particularly cheerful, when everything seems so grim.

Do you remember before all of this happened? In such a short amount of time, it feels like my prior childhood, days filled with the circus and schooling (with that harsh schoolmaster, no less), are nothing but distant dreams. As if the house we live in on the corner of the street, the one we decorate beautifully for Christmas-time, never existed. I do not even remember what it looks like right now. What color is it? The window panes? The roof? Is there a gate? Is there a fence? My memories are a haze, fogged up by the thoughts of gnashing, elongated teeth and flesh dangling off cracking bones.

Sorry, sorry. Such descriptions are not good for your heart. Forgive me.

I do wonder if the schoolmaster is all right, though. With his casual demeanor, it is hard to imagine him being able to survive, especially since he was _such_ a drunkard. Did I ever tell you that one time, during class, he pulled out several bottles of wine from his desk during an arithmetic test? As if he had no care in the world! Afterward, he _demanded_ that I go and make him some money to pay off his debt, "or else," he said. Or else what? Honestly, the very nerve of that man! What kind of integrity of a teacher does he have, if at all? To have a name like Cross and to act like _that _certainly does _not_ live up to the Christian symbolism his name possesses.

Then again, he _was_ the only one able to put up with my inability to learn things quickly. Without his help, I doubt I would be able to read, let alone write. I suppose I should be grateful, even if he did drag me several times to the seedy bars in town to help him play poker. What professional brings a young teenager to a bar to make money? And then _leave_ said-teenager _alone_ while hooking up with a lady, if not two?

He told me to never breathe a word of this to you. I do not think telling you _now_ will change anything, seeing as how the world is slowly unraveling. Besides which, I am certain you would be willing to forgive him, seeing as how he is an "uncle," of sorts.

Maybe he is surviving. I have faith.

I have been stuck in the same place for several days now, waiting for the waters of the stream to level out. The road is completely inaccessible, with at least four-to-five meters deep of water cutting me off from the rest of the way towards—towards wherever I am going. The road goes up a rather daunting hill, so I cannot see beyond it. Fortunately, I am indoors, within a one-story house, and unlike the last time I wrote to you, the owners are long-gone. The fireplace has been fully-stocked with wood, and I keep a fire lit at night.

Oh, yes. A peculiar instance happened last week, late at night. While struggling with hunger and fatigue, I nearly succumbed to the cold, since the temperatures dropped unexpectedly with another cold front. It was late at night as well, near a rather large, industrial farm, and the diseased caught wind of me. I managed to get into the woods and, in my delirious state, I decided I absolutely _needed _a fire, because I would rather die getting eaten than of the cold. So, upon making one, those harsh hisses and awkward footsteps stopped, and they _backed away._ Even though I was quite like a weakened deer, they walked away from the fire, avoiding it completely.

Unfortunately, that took the last of my burning oil, and this house hasn't anymore to spare, but it is good to keep in mind what works to keep yourself alive several moments longer.

The stream _has_ to stop swelling eventually, right? I am getting antsy, sitting in this wooden chair and constantly keeping watch for any oddities outside. The bread here is quickly growing green, but there is enough cheese here for the entire English army and the poor. If I eat anymore, I may turn into cheese myself. Maybe then the maddened will stop wanting to eat me.

It seems the people who used to live here took anything and everything they could with them in a short-notice, since so much was left behind. Or perhaps they went into the city the day when everything went wrong. Either way, there are still valuables inside glass cabinets on display—chinaware with those blue paisley flower designs you like so much, Mana. I wish I could forgo my morals and somehow send you one, but with the possibility of them still being alive, I cannot. Please forgive me. There is also a chest full of lovely dresses and other clothes, though none of them fit me. How I long to have something new to wear, something that is _not_ full of holes and covered in dirt.

Timcanpy keeps pecking at the window. He often loves to go outside to fly for a little bit, and sometimes I think he will not come back, but he always does. Him being here helps me. Without him, I would look insane talking to myself. The lack of conversations with anyone is strange, and some days, I feel like I forgot what my own voice sounds like. I have to keep prompting myself to speak, for I fear that I might lose my voice entirely if I do not.

It is so quiet here, it is maddening. I hope to leave soon.

Should it be sunny tomorrow, I will send out this letter first thing in the morning, in hopes you will receive it. Pray to God that it is—I cannot stand it here any longer.

So while I have not found out any answers yet, stay hopeful for us both, Mana. I cannot wait to come back home to you and to the circus. Perhaps, once this is all over, we can go to London and treat ourselves to something extravagant. Usually I am against indulgence, but there is, as people say, a first time for everything.

Please, take care.

With much love,

_Allen W._


	3. April the Eighth

_April the Eighth, 18XX_

Dear Mana,

This is Allen.

Though the warmth of the sun is beating down in my back, and though the first sprouts of flowers are starting to appear in the long stretches of empty fields, and though I am overlooking the sea on top of some jagged cliffs, free from danger, I am chilled to the bone as Death writes down my name as potentially another victim, but not from the plague—from woe. I have _seen_ the change, Mana—the descent into madness, the fall, however you wish to call it. She could have been _saved._ I do not know how I could have helped her, but she could have been, like the rest.

Was it my fault? If I had never wandered through their town, stomach craving something to eat, I may have starved, but would _they_ still be alive? I breathe in this fresh, ocean air, with the gentle sounds of the waves crashing against the shore, but I feel anything but calm. Rather, I can still see it in my mind, the sounds, the _smell_, the way her body jerked forward, and...

I am getting ahead of myself. Forgive me—even though it happened a week ago, I find it difficult to organize my thoughts to articulate properly. Hence, I have not written to you, and I have been on the run from _them_ for several days. However, where I am now, there are no buildings, nor towns, for many kilometers. At the present, I am physically safe, though the anguish persists to bring heartache on my person.

Her name was Mou—no, Moa. Moa.

After finally leaving that house I talked about in my previous letter, I walked for what felt like forever, only to find myself in the woods. Instead of turning back, I continued on. Forests have very few dangers, unlike the city, but I am not accustomed to them. Several times, I felt like I was walking in circles, because everything appeared the same. I think I was lost there for many days, eating what was left of the food I took from the house. Time became lost, and I forgot what day or month it was. Eventually, after staggering to and fro like a drunkard, I reached the end of the forest and onto a hill, overlooking a small town.

And people were _alive._ Alive! What a miracle it was, to think that the plague had yet to reach somewhere, though my thoughts were wrong. The plague _did_ reach there, but no one noticed. Not even I noticed. It was so well-hidden, nothing seemed amiss.

Yet.

Anyhow, on the brink of starvation, I dragged myself into the small, though affluent, town and proceed to faint on the outskirts. My body felt as if my old schoolmaster dropped multiple barrels of his overpriced wine onto my back, and I could no longer handle it. Fortunately, the kind people, unaware of the plight taking place (how? I believe it was because this town was rather self-sufficient, and did not receive any imports from neighboring places, but even I do not know), took me to their police station.

I met Moa there. At first, speaking and communicating to another functional human being felt difficult, since Timcanpy is the only company I have had for a little over a month, but I somehow managed to tell her my name. They fed me and treated me well, those police officers—well, except for the rotund fellow with his thin eyebrows, always glaring at me, but I cannot remember his name now. He interrogated me as I ate, demanding answers to questions I barely understood at first in my somewhat impaired state.

Of course, I had nothing to hide, and proceeded to tell them everything: how everything was normal, and then the first case came to our town, and how everything rapidly tumbled in despair. How I set out on this journey to find the truth of what had happened. What I saw along the way. _Everything._ Anything I could think of, I told them, though they believed I was insane. "We heard nothing about this," the grouchy police chief said. "There's no way something as bizarre as that would have ever happened!"

None of them believed me. If only I had been more convincing! Perhaps we would have taken more necessary precautions.

I was ordered to be placed under watch by the only female police officer, Moa. She seemed the most interested in my story, though, like the others, she did not believe me. I stayed with her for several nights, recovering from acute exhaustion, while she asked me questions about myself—how old I was, where I grew up, about you, about what I told them earlier. She had this big, fat cat who kept trying to eat Timcanpy, the poor bird.

While she thought I was a lunatic, she still persisted in doing research. "It sounds like you are talking about something from Haitian folklore," she said, flipping through an old book I never saw before. "A creature called a 'zom bee,' but to animate the dead, there's got to be someone practicing black magic, or witchcraft. But no sane person would believe in their actual existence. Another possibility are ghouls, but that doesn't make sense, either."

As you know, I do not read often, so I do not know what some of those terms meant. Ghouls, I have heard of, but not zom bees.

I learned her story, as well. Her parents were murdered, and her best friend, an active member in the church, was against Moa becoming a police officer. Her friend eventually died in a tragic accident, and her brother, Marc (at least I _think_ they were siblings), had been ill ever since, wheelchair-bound. Moa took great care of him, and I even spoke to him several times, though shortly. He barely had strength to eat.

It should have tipped me off then.

I do not really remember what events transpired before that evening; perhaps dinner, maybe more discussion amongst ourselves, I do not know. She was laughing at something I said. Perhaps the last time she smiled.

Marc dropped his utensils unexpectedly, and his face grew pale. Before we knew it, he stood from his wheelchair, his neck bending awkwardly, before turning towards me and _lunging._ He frothed at the mouth, and all of his veins appeared as if they would pop. I fell out of my chair and he nearly bit me, if it were not for Moa's intervention. She yelled at him, asked him what was wrong, for him to speak to her, and I tried, I _tried,_ I wanted to tell her to get away, but—

Instead, he bit her. On the left shoulder. His teeth tore her flesh like paper.

My apologies. This is difficult to write, and my hand keeps shaking. Please forgive me.

Nothing happened, at first—she got away from his grip, and he charged again, inhumanly fast, prompting her officer-instincts to kick in, it seemed, since she got out her gun and fired. My ears rang, so I could not really hear her, but she sounded like she was crying.

And then, she dropped her gun, as if transfixed. Black stars dotted across her skin, Mana. I never saw anything like it—how rapidly her skin turned dark! Her eyes rolled back, but she continued to move. She turned towards me after I called for her, and her teeth—her teeth!—grew long, with sharp points like daggers. Marc, behind her, started to get up as well, appearing unaffected by his wounds. His blood bled as black as his skin.

What more could I do? I picked up her gun and shot her. I shot her as she grabbed for me, right in the head, in between the eyes. A lucky shot, I suppose, but bits of her coated my clothes. The gun would not fire after that, but she stopped moving.

Not Marc, however—he already left, apparently frightened by the sound of the gunshot. Shortly thereafter, I started to hear screams while I tried to get Moa's lifeless body off of me, sweat clinging to my forehead.

Within minutes, the whole town succumbed to the plague.

I could not save them.

Mana, oh, Lord, Mana, what am I to do? It took hold of them in seconds, even though the disease apparently festered within Marc for weeks, if not months! Nothing makes sense anymore, and now, the whole town is dead. Moa, the police chief—everyone. I fled. I ran, like a coward. If I stayed, I would have died, and I _know_ this. Yet, this persistent ache in my heart makes me feel ill.

I cannot handle this. I cannot handle simply observing anymore! There must be something I can do, anything. Right? But, for now, I am useless. I am just another victim, waiting to be claimed. How can I expect myself to make it to London? I am so far away from it, Mana. It will take at least a month, if not longer, on-foot. I am so tired. Where is home? I want to go back there, though if I retraced my steps, I would simply get more lost.

Why, God?

I apologize for the wet spots on the paper; no matter what I do, they will not go away.

Right now, I do not have anything more to say that will not bring more pain to your heart, Mana. Please, remain safe. Please, keep me in your thoughts. I am afraid, but I am still walking, like you told me to. I will learn the truth, no matter how hurtful.

Please feed Timcanpy some of that special bird-feed. I think he deserves it, after everything that has happened.

With much love,

_Allen W._


	4. April the Fourteenth

[AN: Thank you so kindly for your reviews, follows, and the like. I sincerely appreciate the support. *smiles*]

* * *

><p><em>April the Fourteenth, 18XX<em>

Dear Mana,

This is Allen.

I am afraid this will be my last letter to you.

Even now, as I write this, my left hand aches and throbs as darkened skin reaches my elbow, causing my body to spasm uncontrollably. If my pen jerks across the page unexpectedly, please, forgive me. I will attempt to make it as legible as possible. I did not know it took so long for the disease to spread, centimeter by centimeter, but it will take me, undoubtedly.

At the moment, the sun is warm, and the river I rest alongside of is idly drifting by. Timcanpy is on the riverbank, pecking at the ground here and there. I see flowers, Mana. So many different flowers—this spring has been kind to Nature, but not Her children. In this sort of setting, I simply want to sleep for hours upon hours, not having to worry about many impending crises that could occur within the next few days—if I even have days, now. With this ever-present fever and pain surging up and down the length of my arm, I doubt I even have until tomorrow. We shall see.

I am sorry, Mana. I feel as if I have failed you not only as your trusted comrade, but as your son. To die, not even having reached London, is simply...

Is simply upsetting.

I am sorry, Mana. I am really, really sorry.

You have given me everything. When schoolmaster Cross found me, years back in the snow on Christmas Eve, after having been abandoned by my birth-parents, you took me in. You introduced me to the circus, and gave me a name of which I cherish to this day, "Allen." You showed me what it means to love and be loved, and never gave up on me, even while I struggled in school. And for me to repay you, for me to show you my thanks, by failing you? By stopping here, in the spring sun, near a river to appropriately drown myself in when I become close to losing my mind, trying to not scream too loudly, lest more come here to feast on me is—

I still need to _know._ I need to know why this is happening, and what caused it all, and why we as the human race must perish to this. For what reason have humans deserved this? I do not truly understand yet. Death is a cycle of life, but extinction is an erasure of life itself, and I think we may be on the brink of humankind's peril. It cannot simply end here, yes?

Perhaps that is what everyone thinks when they are dying. "It cannot end here." Then, where _can_ it end? There is always a goal after your original goal, and another after that, and so forth—which is life. Life is a journey, a path, or whatever else cliché phrases humans use to describe it as. It has to end sometime, since we are not immortal. We all eventually hit the dead-end, even though there is more in the distance—we cannot reach it. We can never reach it, can we?

I do not know what I am writing. My ramblings are no longer making sense, not even to myself. Perhaps I am more delirious than I initially thought.

It happened yesterday, while crossing through an apple orchard near an old church and graveyard. Those diseased are learning, Mana. Originally, I believed them to be inept intellectually-wise, but upon my arrival, during my search for food, a child—he looked to be about ten, and still had a pair of goggles on his matted hair—jumped out from behind one of the trees, teeth piercing through my glove. The sensation jarred and stunned me for a brief second, allowing him to chew through the back of my hand and bone quite easily, but not for long.

After freeing myself, I knocked him down and, with a nearby thick, fallen branch, I impaled the child through one eye, and then the other. Shortly thereafter, he ceased movement, though the damage had already been done; my hand is irreparably damaged. If only I had but some sort of blade on my person, I would have hacked it off, though Fate is no longer on my side, it seems.

Was it ever?

My eyes keep shutting. Every time I reopen them, the sun has moved significantly in the sky, and now it is beginning to descend beyond the horizon. The reddish black tint is still seizing my arm as its own, as if it never belonged to me in the first place. When I touch it, it feels quite like snake scales—cold and seemingly-damp. I can still move my fingers, but barely.

Do not go outside. Do _not_ go outside, promise me that, Mana. Maybe we were fools, thinking that by my setting-out, I could somehow influence the world in a search for the cure. But now, I am simply another number of those diseased or deceased. _Do not go outside._ For my sake. Until you run of food or water, stay inside, stay safe, stay _alive,_ please, Mana.

Someone will find an answer. I am sure of it. I am _sure_ of it.

I can feel myself slippin_g. _

_Ju_st woke up agan. Its almst morning or non here. Sun is ud. Ever_y_t_ime_ I move mypen, everthing _blus_ togther in amess

got t tie this to tim befr to late plese feed hi well

deseve that muc for coming with me

arm hurts so _bd_ mana nothing cmpares miss you

godbye

love alle


	5. April, 18XX

Brother,

How is everything back home? It feels like it's been forever since our group deployed from the church—I feel so far away from London now, and so far away from you. But at least I can be happy knowing you're fine. And I most definitely want to let you know that _I'm_ fine, too. Yes, I'm eating enough, no, I'm not hurt, and yes, I use the pillow you made for me every night when I go to sleep. Frankly, I'm more worried about how little _you_ sleep, Mr. Coffee-Addict. I know how hard you work, trying to make one of your many theories have some good side-effects to these possessed people, but make sure to take a break once in awhile, okay? Since I'm not there, I can't make sure that you do, so you'd better tell Reever or Johnny to do my job for me while I'm away!

Tiedoll's group and mine split off several days ago—at least I think it was several days ago, but I can't really tell the time anymore. Every day is exactly the same to me right now, but it has definitely been getting warmer. I guess spring really is upon us, huh? Would be much warmer if everything didn't seem so dismal and dead. When I was still traveling with Kanda, Marie, and Daisya, Kanda still glared at everything like nothing was different. Maybe he really _does_ hate everything. And Marie, even though he's blind, has saved us several times with his superb hearing. Sometimes we rely too much on our sight, I guess.

Kanda was so reluctant to let me depart by myself. He claimed to know that I could handle myself, but that it was better to have someone go with me. But Kanda has to go all the way to Italy with the rest of his group, and my mission is to simply go to medical facilities spread throughout England. And with everyone who is able-bodied deployed, I _need_ to go alone. I know you're worried about it too, Komui, but given the current state of everything, I _have_ to. Anyways, he reluctantly agreed to let me go by myself. Tiedoll had nothing to say on the matter, but Daisya complained of it as well. Fortunately, Marie came to my side and reaffirmed my ability to perform my job.

I _am_ the highest-skilled person for this job, after all. I suppose all those dance lessons and you teaching me how to defend myself paid off, in the end. The fact that I can read and write as well is a plus, seeing as how so few people—let alone women—can do that lately. Kanda can barely read and write in English, but I see him, sometimes, writing in a leather-bound notebook.

At any rate, should these creatures that appear human be the same as they have since this all began, then there is really nothing to worry about. They are not agile, and they are not sneaky. They do not seem able to perform any sort of task normal humans can, and I have yet to hear one attempt any forms of conversation. They're like animals, really. But they walk like humans.

It's really touching, though, that such a _grump_ like Kanda cares enough about me. I still remember how he said, before my first run to supply us with food, that I would _never_ make it back alive. When I did, he didn't even apologize. He just did that little "hmph" he does before walking out of the main room. He didn't bother to remember my name until last month, and now that we're on a mission together, he tries to talk to me on occasion.

Progress! I think? I hope we can become friends despite... everything. And, no, don't even _think_ that we're going to become an item, Brother. I can already hear you revving up some kind of machine to viciously murder Kanda. Remember last time you tried something funny like that? He hacked your robot to bits.

Speaking of robots, technology really amazes me sometimes. I guess the twentieth century is really upon us, huh? Imagine what we as the human race can do in the _twenty-first_ century.

I digress. As I wrote earlier, I departed from Kanda's group several days ago. So far, everything seems well, with a couple of rainstorms here and there. I stopped at one of the three locations you gave me in the folder, and all vials and bottles are safely in my bag. Do you really believe this medicine and its properties will work on what looks like walking corpses? After everything I've seen, it's a little hard to believe, but I believe in you. I'll always believe in you, until the very end.

Right now, I'm taking a break along either a stream or a river. I can't remember its name, and it's not written on the map, and that's really bothering me. I haven't seen any infected people around bodies of water—probably because they cannot swim. They can't climb trees, either, so I don't think they have the hand-eye coordination (or however you call it) to do that. It's really pretty and quiet here, though if I continue this way, it will make my trip longer, which I want to avoid. I'll proceed to the main road later, but right now the sun is setting, and I'm growing hungry. Tomorrow, then.

I can't be but forty or less kilometers from my second destination now. I can probably make that in two to three days on foot, depending on the situation. The further I get away from London, the less people there are, so the less infected I meet. Beneficial, I suppose, but also a downer in that I have yet to meet anyone _alive._

I pray for Kanda and the others safety, even though I don't believe in God. Where they are going, we have no idea what the situation is, since we haven't heard anything from anywhere else in Europe. I may not see them again in weeks, if not months. If at all.

I don't want to think about it.

So to summarize, I'm okay so far. So let that be one worry off your chest. I'll send another report in soon, when I have reached the second location. Make sure to get some sleep! When I get back, I'll know for certain if you have or not, so you better do what I say! Tell everyone I said hello, too, if you can. I hope they're not worried about me. And you, too—don't worry about me. I'm going to be okay, and I'll be back there in no time. All right?

Love,

_Lenalee_


	6. April, 18XX - 2

Brother,

I know I said I would write to you as soon as I got to the next medical facility to pick up everything on the list, but this is too important to wait until then. I waited through the night last night by this river, and I awoke to the strangest groaning, but definitely human. At first, I thought it was one of them, since that is all I have ever seen. So I took climbed the tree and waited, only to find that, as dawn slowly broke the horizon, the sound did not move any closer or further away. And, more miraculously, much like my own, a carrier pigeon with a yellow string of yarn looped around its leg swooped by. Thinking it was mine, I tried calling it, but it did not come to me. Instead, it headed towards the sound of groaning. I waited until the sun came up, since we have scientifically determined that the creatures are weaker in daylight, and proceeded to go towards the source of the sound.

The poor bird, which I thought was mine, continued squawking as I got closer, only to find a boy, seemingly asleep, at the base of a tree trunk. At the time I found him, he appeared incredibly pale, and left arm appeared bitten. I could still see streaks of brown in his hair, though it has quickly given way to silver by the time I am writing this. At first, I contemplated putting him out of his misery, but as I inspected his wound closer, I found something rather peculiar that you need to hear about. I checked to see how far along it was, only to notice it stopped around the junction between his arm and shoulder. Even now, by high-noon, it has yet to change. Instead, the arm has completely reddened, and the bite mark itself is forming into an almost-crystallized cross, right in the center of the back of his hand.

I've never seen anything like it. It's like he is adapting to the disease somehow. Maybe this is the break we have been looking for? Although, it _is _some time past noon, and he hasn't quite woken up lately. I don't know how long he's been out for, but if he continues on like this, it means he's in a coma of some kind. But he is alive.

I just wish I could get a good look at his eyes. That's the biggest indicator, the sickly-yellow color. Then I would know if I really should put him down or not. I don't really want to—I've seen so much death lately, it makes my heart grow sick. Especially after what happened to Suman, I… don't wish to think of it much more.

Do you think Suman's daughter is still alive? I know she was sickly, too. Maybe she's safe. His memory has to live on, after everything he's done for us, right?

But God is cruel. So, so cruel. After all, look at the world now. Look at __our__world now. And with no hope for any sort of answers.

Well, maybe there _are _answers. I did find this boy here. He looks no younger than myself, around fifteen or sixteen years of age. Very pale, but the white hair does not help at all. Judging by the filth on his clothes, I'd say he's been traveling for quite some time, or he's poor. But the poor were amongst the ones first infected, so I highly doubt that. He must be one of the few survivors left, other than ourselves.

He isn't carrying very much, either. No provisions to keep him warm from the unexpectedly cold nights that still haunt the early spring weather. But he does have paper, a lot of it, and several different bottles of ink, along with several jars of pickled foods, though they aren't pickled quite long enough to eat. I'm surprised how much he can carry in such a small bag—and no weapon, either! Not in his pockets or anywhere. In this sort of situation, you would think it'd be mandatory to have one on your person at all times. Somehow, though, he's survived this long. If he makes it through today, that is.

Should he wake up, we may have some issues with our rations. He doesn't have enough for two to three days, and I only have enough to reach all the facilities and back. With two people, we would be somewhat strapped for food. Maybe somewhere would have more, if we have any luck. Part of me wonders if I should return with this boy first, but we have waited long enough for this mission, and we are running out of medical supplies as-is. So, I will continue, with or without him.

Excuse me as I eat some lunch and try to rouse him.

It has been a few hours since I wrote the previous line. It's mid-afternoon, probably around five in the evening, and he has yet to respond to my words, except with the slight fluttering of his eyelids. I think his consciousness is desperately trying to rise to the surface. But if he does not come out of it by tomorrow morning, I really don't know what to do. I can't kill him. We've lost so many. I can't just leave him here, either, as bait for those that eat flesh. Then again, I doubt I have the energy or strength to carry someone who is nearly my height, and undoubtedly weighs more. I may be strong, but not strong enough to lug around a deadweight.

What am I going to do, Komui? This is the worst. We need more people back at the church, but is it worth it? Is it worth saving this life? Is it worth waiting for? I can't decide. This pain is chewing at my stomach as I try to reach a decision, it's agonizing. If only you were here with me right now, you could make a diagnosis, and _then _I would know what to do, but as it stands, I am alone. I'm alone in these woods, with my only consultant being the silver fish in the stream, and the budding leaves of the trees nearby. If I send this letter now, I would be spending too much time in one spot, and run out of food before I return. If I leave him to die, I would be living on a guilty conscience for the rest of my life, which would kill me eventually. If I bring him with me, would we make it and not starve?

Unlikely.

Lord, give me an _answer! _I'm frozen in fear to take action, but if I don't take one, nothing will come of it. Before I left the church, I didn't think of what would happen if I found someone alive but dead at the same time. Bitten, yet still human. I didn't even think it was _possible. _No one did. And now here I am, writing to you the thoughts running through my head, because I don't know what to do.

One thing I _do _know, though, is that I am going to wait until morning. I know I can afford at least _that _much. I used to think I knew what I was capable of doing, but now I don't know.

The cross-shape is hard and cold to the touch, unlike the rest of his brittle skin. Flakes of red keep shedding off, revealing a darker shade underneath. His nails are completely black now, too. But it hasn't spread any further. Maybe if I knew his name, I could try calling it, and see if that would do anything. But I can't. I can't speak what I don't know.

I need to start a fire soon. I can feel chills already running down my spine.

Back again. The fire is lit, and the night is starting to take over the sky. Nothing has changed. My thoughts haven't changed, either. I am too jittery to sleep—what if he wakes and turns out to be one of them? I must stay up the whole night. Though, he no longer has a fever, like he did earlier. It has significantly subsided. I think that's good.

I almost fell asleep. Staring at the water does not keep me awake. I'm so used to sleeping at least seven hours a night, and to experience this is strange. How does Kanda manage? I don't understand.

Nothing has changed still. The moon is descending. I fear he will stay like this even when dawn comes. I need to get more firewood.

The first rays of the sun are here, and nothing has happened. He's still the same. Still in the same stupor.

The sky is now blue, and morning is in full-swing. Birds are chirping, though this alarm is not waking him at all. I must take heart with whatever action I decide to do. Since God has not awoken this boy since I've been with him, I don't think he will make it. Komui, please accept my action on both our behalves to kill him. Either I do it, or one of them do it, and I don't believe that's right, either. I'll write to you once again once I reach the second medical facility.

Forgive me, since I can't forgive myself for this.

With great love,

__Lenalee__


End file.
